


In Service To

by the_nerd_word



Category: Naruto
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Belonging, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone needs to speak their damn minds, Friendship/Love, M/M, Sexual Content, Snippets, Time Skips, Yamato-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_word/pseuds/the_nerd_word
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Yamato has defined himself by temporary identities. He isn't sure how to want more, or if he should. Time provides its own answers.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seb_the_owl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seb_the_owl/gifts).



> Warnings for dark themes, such as child experimentation, emotional manipulation, and war-related grief. None of these things go into excessive detail, and they mostly follow canon.
> 
> This is a gift for seberu, who has been a super patient beta for me while I take forever to accomplish anything. This originally started as humorous PWP, but ofc it turned into one of the angstiest things I've ever written. Sorry? Yamato really needs more love.

Sometimes, when exhaustion slackens his aching limbs and consciousness curls in on itself like some inattentive monster, he thinks he can remember a time before this place. Days spent in the sun, wisps among a warm, wooden canopy.

Memories come less and less, though. And all that's left is the ebb and flow of the cold laboratory womb.

The lighting is dimmed down to some gray-green cast that permeates everywhere, and the solution he's suspended in roils around his bare limbs like liquid smoke. He feels pinches where thick IV lines kiss his skin, but it's a constant pain, another part of this stale place and the apprehensive life it maintains.

There are other children nearby in separate tanks, and their weightlessness mimics his. He tries not to stare at their features too much, tries not to see himself in the fearful whites of their eyes or the skinny hunch of their bodies. It's easy to learn faces, to seek comfort in this shared misery. It's much harder to forget their faces once they're gone. And inevitably, one day, like collapsing dolls, they're always gone.

He suspects that will be is future as well.

He's taken from the tank occasionally. There's no way to measure time here, no windows or clocks to indicate change, but he think he's taken every couple of days. He's made to gasp as the jutsu that lets him breathe within the solution suddenly burns itself into dormancy. Masked figures grab him at the armpits and drag him into another room, indifferent to the little wells of blood from where the cannula needles are plucked from his skin. He's strapped to a table, weak and uncoordinated even though his every instinct is screaming at him to fight, run, hide. Then he is left to wait for pain.

There is a creature with long black hair and snake-like, hungry gold eyes in the other room. Their hands are designers of cruelty, and their touch leaves behind a coolness that lingers like sickness. The person, the snake, empties the murky contents of syringes into the crooks of his arms. He wonders if it’s venom, because it always scalds like it's killing him.

One day, as he cries and writhes on the procedure table, he hears the snake rasp, "Despite regulatory T cell stimulation, Subject 039's effector cells are still targeting Hashirama's DNA." A pen scratches quickly against paper somewhere in the shadowy background behind him. "Erythrocyte hemolysis, mast cell granules, and initial cell swelling are evident on histological evaluation." There's a sigh, and it sounds close to a hiss. "Tissue necrosis likely. Re-evaluate in the morning, if subject retains viability."

If he doesn’t die. That’s what the snake means. He tries not to whimper as he takes quick, shallow breaths, but every part of him feels hot and constricted. But the snake said something else, too. He repeats the words in his head, focusing on that one little indicator, that partial piece of identity as if it is a reassurance that can reverse some of the damage. "S-subject 039?" he whispers, not knowing if he can even manage the words until they're suddenly a desperate sound in the air.

The snake pauses, its pale face thoughtful as it watches him, before it bares its teeth in a false smile. "Yes, child," it purrs. "That's you."

The pen scratching resumes.

Consciousness is more fickle.

When the other tanks go dark one by one over the slow drip of time, he takes pitiful comfort in that identification. It's not a name, not even a stretch of a real selfhood, but it's something. Something he can claim.

But eventually, he forgets this, too.

 

\--

 

Neither Hatake Kakashi nor the decision to spare his life are as heavy as Kinoe expected them to be. He props the unconscious ANBU captain against a wall and steps back, watching the steady rise and fall of Hatake’s chest. He understands there will be unpleasant consequences to this decision. Danzo tasked him with killing Hatake and retrieving his sharingan. Willingly returning empty-handed will signify nothing less than insubordination.

The longer he stares, the more anxious Kinoe begins to feel, and when he closes his eyes all he can picture are those fifty-nine mounds of freshly turned earth. He is a survivor, a symbol of the evolutionary strides of past and present. But ultimately, he had been cast aside and left to rot. Given up by his family, disdained as a failure by Orochimaru. It was Danzo who took him from the lab, who came back and saw him and saved him when nobody else was even looking. Danzo, who had been silhouetted in the doorway like some hero.

"From now on, you will be a shinobi of the Foundation," Danzo had told him. "From now on, you're one of us."

Kinoe has no doubt that he'll be betraying the faith of the entire organization if he abandons this mission. He feels no particular fondness for Root, but it's the only thing he knows; just as the Foundation has supported Konoha so, too, has it provided structure in his life. Maybe this sudden desire to be loyal to Hatake is entirely misplaced. Maybe this whole idea is a mistake. Danzo, for all that he is cold and impassive, gave Kinoe his name and a home, and together those things have always felt like a purpose.

But Danzo was also the man who told Kinoe to cherish his life. And that... that gives him the fortitude to wish Kakashi well. There's a tension in Kinoe's chest that unravels when he decides to take a chance on this young ANBU's devotion to the word "friend", to choose life over calculated death.

Surely that's something worth cherishing.

 

\--

 

"You're leaving?" he asks in disbelief.

"Yeah," Kakashi answers quietly. The sun catches some of the silver in his hair, makes it shine like something precious. It's the brightest thing about him. "The Sandaime told me yesterday. I just turned in the paperwork."

He doesn't know what to say, so he stands straighter, almost at-attention. Waiting, hoping for clarification that will make this feel less like he's losing someone.

Kakashi lets out a breath that's not quite a laugh and turns to watch Konoha from where they're standing on one of the in-village overlooks. "It's only the ANBU division, Tenzō. I'll still be in the village regularly."

Tenzō nods once, careful to keep his face from showing too much. He wishes he still had his long hair to hide behind. There’s pressure in his chest and throat, this foreign weakness that’s building up the longer they stand there, but that’s a humiliation he can’t afford. "What will you do now? Routine missions?" And if there's an edge of bitterness to his voice, he doesn’t think he can help it.

"Actually," Kakashi drawls, sounding hesitant, "I'll be assigned a genin team this year."

"You?" Tenzō blurts before he can catch himself, feeling his eyebrows somewhere near his hairline. "I mean— Yeah, that'll be—" He cuts himself off before he can truly start to babble. Takes a moment to let out a slow breath. "You have a lot you can pass on to future generations."

Kakashi snorts, his uncovered eye crinkling ever so slightly. "You sound like one of the advertisements in the jounin office."

"Sorry," Tenzō says, ducking his head and smiling awkwardly. It feels more like a grimace. Probably looks like one, too. "This is just surprising. It's hard for me to picture you with three genin."

"Maa. I can't really imagine it either."

There’s a strange note in Kakashi's tone, something too deprecating and tired and personal. Something meant for another conversation entirely. Tenzō looks up to find Kakashi staring at his right hand, his expression startlingly empty even though his fingers are tense to the point of trembling. Before Tenzō can say anything, Kakashi drops his hand and offers a smile. It’s strained, scripted without any real conviction, and Tenzō thinks he might be looking at a tragedy.

"I'm sure it'll be an enlightening experience," Kakashi concludes blandly.

Tenzō nods, not sure what else to do. "Yeah, maybe."

Something else flickers across what little there is to Kakashi's expression, and Tenzō immediately regrets his flippancy, because he has no idea what to make of that brief, pained look. He’s been trained to read environments and people, but all at once he feels inexperienced. All this time watching Kakashi — as a curious child, as an opposing operative, as the steadiest of allies — and he still feels so far away.

"Are you going to resent me for this?" Kakashi asks quietly.

"Of course not,” he answers in a rush. And before Tenzō can wonder if he’s lying, even to himself, he huffs and takes a step closer. “I’m sorry. I’m acting really immature about this. I’m just—“ _Jealous of your time_. “—used to seeing your mask. Both of them,” he tacks on, laughing awkwardly.

"Tenzō—"

"That's your name, you know." As soon as he says it, Tenzō wishes he could take the words back. He feels himself tense, adrenaline like fuel for a hasty exit, but he refuses to give in to that kind of cowardice. Kakashi is looking at him like he expects something else, like he at least recognizes the confession for what it might be, and Tenzō suddenly thinks the day just got a whole lot warmer. Hurriedly, his nerves somewhere in his stomach, Tenzō adds, "I just mean, I know Yukimi was the one who told me, but it didn't feel like mine until you said it."

Kakashi is quiet for a moment, just watching Tenzō as the wind catches their hair and creates ripples out of the sunlight. Finally, his voice soft in a way that carries, he says, “I don’t own you, Tenzō. You are your own person.”

“I— I know that.” He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, and he’s torn between embarrassment and this horrible need to defend himself. “What does that even mean? Why do you—“ Tenzō stops to take a deep breath, trying to collect himself, reaching for stoicism or at the very least something less blatantly emotional. He’s not sure he manages either.

Kakashi nods, though Tenzō has no idea why. “I need a change,” he tells Tenzō after a while, absently rubbing one hand against the forehead protector covering his sharingan. “I don’t know if the Sandaime’s idea is a solution, but…” He shrugs and places both hands in his pockets. “We’ll see.”

“Then… I wish you the best, senpai,” is all Tenzō can say, and he means it.

 

\--

 

For a while, he is Chameleon— a spectrum of talent, a honed and graceful predator who hides in plain sight, a spray of blood against the forest’s cascade of greens. The seasons pass in swathes of color, and he adapts.

After a suspected security leak, he is Ratel— a solitary predator, a tenacious and aggressive creature of instinct, a threat to careless snakes (though this sort of closure is hard to come by).

Then he is Cat, until suddenly he is not.

“Your new code name will be Yamato,” Tsunade informs him, and duty slips sideways into a different kind of life.

 

\--

 

A chill hovers in the night air, nipping like something alive. Yamato uses its sting like a conduit to focus as he locks his fingers and quietly proclaims, “Wood style. Four Pillar House jutsu.”

While the earth erupts into intertwining beams of wood, he watches the members of his young, competent team. There’s weariness in their returning stares. Both Naruto and Sai still tremble occasionally with residual effects from Sasuke’s chidori, like the lightning has permanently etched itself into their nervous systems. Sakura seems to be in better shape, though her left arm remains inflamed from the events at the Tenchi bridge.

They paid a heavy price for their mission, even if they all managed to walk away more or less whole.

“We’ll leave at dawn. Until then, get some rest.”

Naruto is the last to go inside. He pauses by Yamato, clenching both fists, his stare focused somewhere between his feet. The early moonlight casts a softness to his features. “Hey, Captain Yamato?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think… I’m being stupid?" Naruto’s voice is rougher than it should be. “Do you think all of this,” a gesture back toward the sun-warmed plateaus that lay hours behind them, toward that clashing, fateless reunion with Sasuke, “is just… dumb hope? Am I risking my teammates?”

It’s a different kind of defeat on top of everything else, hearing that broken confidence, and Yamato isn’t sure how to answer. Part of him thinks Naruto deserves to know the truth — that, in his experience, reality doesn’t make allowances for grief or friendship or emotional exhaustion — but he doesn’t want to be responsible for delivering that kind of hurt. There was callous disdain in Sasuke’s eyes, but Yamato also remembers the strength of Naruto’s conviction, the way the wind took his compassion and wove it like a thread around them all. That kind of faith is as admirable as it is rare.

“No,” he says at last, speaking quietly, hoping this is what his charge needs to hear. “I don’t know if it’s possible, convincing Sasuke to abandon his revenge and return to Konoha… but you know his heart more than anybody, I imagine. If you think there’s even a small chance… then keep trying. You’ll beat everything that stands in your way; you said so yourself, right?”

Naruto huffs a laugh, and he looks reassured despite the fatigue he carries. Yamato has a hard time telling if it's sincere. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right.” He exhales sharply and nods to himself. “Thanks, Captain. Uh, could this stay between us?”

“Of course. And you’re welcome, Naruto.” He nods toward the temporary house. “Try to sleep. We still have another day of travel before we reach Konoha.”

“Right.”

He follows Naruto inside, wondering if he just chose _easy_ over _true_. Lying down does not provide enlightenment.

 

  
It’s a little after midnight when Yamato’s bedroom door opens, spilling candlelight into the room.

Sai enters without a word, moving like some fantastical spirit, all pale skin and willowy grace. He stops a few feet short from Yamato’s bedroll, entirely unreadable. There’s an emptiness to his face, a hollow sort of look that permeates the fire-lit black of his eyes, and Yamato is all at once wide awake and wary. He sits up, one hand casually moving toward his weapons pouch. It’s easy to remember the satisfaction Danzo used to take in revenge, the petty violence of his many retributions. This would be a convenient time for a quick, bloody sort of vengeance, despite the tactlessness.

So Yamato is surprised when Sai slowly drops to his knees. “What are you doing?”

“Do you want to fuck?” Sai offers without inflection, staring without reserve as he sets the candle aside.

Yamato blinks and leans back, wondering if this is some scheme, jumping to any conclusion but the obvious. “What?”

“I said,” Sai repeats patiently, “do you want to fuck?”

“No, yeah, I heard you,” Yamato mutters, trying to mute his bewilderment. “Why?”

“Sex stimulates the binding of acetylcholine and dopamine to their target receptors, and post-coital oxytocin is good for—”

“ _Stop_. Sai, stop.” Sai does, quickly, for which Yamato is a little grateful. He resists the urge to rub his eyes, too cautious to lower his guard even that much. “I know that. I meant, why do you want to have sex now? Tonight? With me?”

“I’m tired of losing,” Sai states matter-of-factly, reaching down to cup the front of Yamato’s pants as if that’s all it’s going to take.

Yamato quickly tilts his hips back to stay out of reach. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Sai blinks, withdrawing his hand and looking mildly considerate. “Do you want me to go?”

“You’re Root.”

The little flame casts new shadows as Sai tilts his head to one side. “So?”

“So,” Yamato sighs, “I don’t know if I can trust you.” And hell, he’s tired of feeling that way about so many people, but that’s the life he’s familiar with. Tsunade’s warning was justified, even if Sai chose to help Naruto instead of completing his secret mission. Yamato knows what Root operatives are capable of, knows the eerie depth of their abilities to deceive.

Sai is quiet for several seconds, expression never changing as he thinks about his answer. “I suppose you can’t, about some things. But this isn’t a trick. I want to. Do you?”

Yamato hesitates, searching the operative’s face before letting his gaze quickly roam over the revealing inches of bare midriff. “No,” he says at last.

“Liar.” The accusation is almost friendly.

Yamato refrains from sighing again, but it’s close. “Maybe I do,” he admits. “There’s no way I’m letting myself be that vulnerable around you, though.”

After a moment, Sai simply nods, almost understandingly. He reaches over to pick up his candle, then stands. “Captain,” he acknowledges before he leaves.

After everything that's happened, Yamato doesn’t feel like the title suits him at all.

 

\--

 

The bar is moderately full, despite the early hour. Conversation hovers like some quivering scale between the usual clamor and a subdued, weary murmur.

Drink in hand, Yamato scans the tables until he spots a white shock of hair and a familiar bandana in the far corner. He walks over with a smile and takes a seat on the end, angling the chair toward the rest of the bar out of habit. “Hey. Long time no see.”

“Hey, yourself,” Genma drawls around the end of a senbon, offering a lazy smirk just as Kakashi says, “Yo, Yamato.”

“Been a while since we’ve all had a night off.”

Genma snorts and casts a quick glance upward. “Don’t jinx it, man.”

“I would hope we’re past jinxing now,” Kakashi mutters wryly. Without looking, he tips his glass back with one finger until it’s balanced on its end. The drink, clear but fizzling softly, sloshes against the side without spilling.

“Ah, well…” Yamato shrugs, not knowing what to say to that. “I guess I’m easily appreciative these days.” Hard not to be, with the current state of the world. It feels like war is at the turn of every generation of shinobi, despite the efforts of their peers and predecessors. And hell if that’s not a thought to drink to. “Damn, that’s good.”

Genma arches one brow and shakes his head. “You and your sours, I don’t get it. They’re like drinking vinegar.”

“Alcoholic vinegar,” Yamato elaborates, amused when they both grimace.

“Poor Yamato,” Kakashi laments with a sigh, spinning his glass idly. “Never has had good tastes.”

Before Yamato can even wonder how to react to that, a waitress stops by the table. “You through?” she asks Genma, gesturing toward his empty mug. The tokubetsu nods and hands the mug to her. “Thanks.”

“Want another?”

“No, ma’am.”

As the waitress walks away, the leisurely sway of her hips is almost enough to distract from the subtle outline of knives under her skirt. Genma’s eyes trail after her appreciatively, if a bit ruefully. The senbon clicks twice against his teeth as he tilts his head.

Kakashi somehow manages to lean into Genma’s line of sight without looking like he’s trying to. It’s one of the more random skills Yamato has always admired. “Maa, Genma, I saw her stab a guy through the hand last week,” Kakashi says cheerfully, and Genma immediately groans.

“I swear,” Genma sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you’re positively evil sometimes.”

“Me? No.” Kakashi waves his fingers, casually dismissing the accusation. He looks entirely too innocent. “I’m just trying to save you from repeating your last few dates.”

“Last few?” Yamato asks into his mug, trying to stifle a laugh before he sips. “Bad luck lately?”

“Miserable,” Kakashi answers for Genma, who groans again, only this time it sounds more resigned.

Yamato shakes his head and makes a mental note to get some of the more comical details later. He's really missed this. “Sounds like you could use more Gai time,” he suggests, grinning as Genma’s expression slowly changes from mild confusion to horrified understanding.

“Traitorous, both of you,” Genma says grumpily, but he’s close to smiling back. “And that was a truly shitty pun. I mean— no. Just no.”

“Eh. Wait until I’ve had another drink.”

“He gets worse,” Kakashi agrees mock-solemnly.

Genma scoffs, kicking his chair back with one foot. “As much as I’d love to stick around for that,” he assures with a crooked smile, “I have a date.”

Yamato blinks, wondering if he knows the person, but he’s polite enough not to pry outright. “Oh? Have fun.”

“Lucky, lucky,” Kakashi teases.

Genma nods. “I’ll catch you two later, yeah? I should be in the village a couple more days.”

“Yeah, see you.” As Genma retreats through the loose crowd, Yamato hums shortly. “I’m not sure if I’m jealous or relieved not to have the social responsibility.”

Kakashi waits a moment before he murmurs, “I believe Kotetsu and Izumo roped him into helping them make dinner for Kurenai.”

And that takes Yamato by surprise, leaves a cold, familiar knot in the pit of his stomach. “Oh,” he says, knowing that little syllable isn’t nearly enough to encompass the significance of what Kakashi just said. “I saw Shikamaru yesterday. He looked…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Yamato takes another drink. He doesn’t enjoy it as much as before.

“He’s a tough kid,” Kakashi says, then shakes his head. “Hell, not a kid anymore. He’s strong. They all are. They’ll be okay.” He places one hand on his forehead protector briefly before letting it drop back to the table. The motion is telling in a way Yamato doesn’t want to think about. “At least he got to bury the son of a bitch alive.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He tells himself not to fidget in his seat, then does so anyway. “Sometimes it’s hard to find that strength,” Yamato confesses quietly. “Especially when you’re that young.”

“You were just as strong.”

Yamato laughs before he can help it, surprised and a little bitter that this is suddenly about him. Maybe it's his fault. “I was a child assassin.”  
“More than just that—” Kakashi starts, but Yamato waves it off.

“The past,” he says by way of explanation, and Kakashi looks like he wants to argue but he finally just nods. Yamato is a bit relieved by that. He doesn't want to have that conversation. “It’s been nice, getting to work with you again.”

“Mm. Almost like old times,” Kakashi says, and it’s not rushed, but it’s not his usual lazy chime-in either. More like some uncomfortable balance in-between, a perfect match to the tension throughout the rest of the bar. “Naruto, Sakura, and Sai— they all like you. It’s obvious your time with the team left an impression.”

 _And you?_ Yamato almost asks. Almost, but doesn’t, and that kind of cowardice is both pathetic and desperate. “Team seven is special,” he says instead, wondering at his own tone and the gentle way it cushions his words.

“It is,” Kakashi agrees quietly, staring into his drink. “You’re a part of it, too, you know.”

He's not sure if he agrees, and his answer is mundane at best, a filler. The sour doesn’t do much to mask the stale taste of what isn’t passing between them.

 

\--

 

As months go by like ambivalent witnesses, Yamato’s nightmares change. Sleep favors red clouds and rampant tailed beasts and stolen hearts and one illusive, snarling orange mask. He accepts these things like he does everything else, but part of him wonders if insomnia wouldn’t be kinder.

Sometimes waking is accompanied by strangled gasps. Weak, fleeting— a tale-tell shortcoming, and his heartbeats race seconds while he tells himself that he’s safe, that morning is coming.

It always does. For him, at least.

 

\--

 

Somehow, Yamato never expected Sai to be so warm.

“How old are you again?” he breathes between kisses, running his hands over smooth, pale skin, like it’s a canvas he can paint by touch alone.

Sai smashes their mouths together, tactless and aggressive and everything Yamato has never thought about. “Shut up,” he orders, and then— “Touch me.”

It’s easy to get lost in that confidence, to lose himself in the moment. Yamato presses calloused fingers into the dips of Sai’s bare hips, massages his way down to straddling thighs. He hikes one leg, wrapping it around Sai’s ass just before he thrusts upward, relishing the way Sai moves against him, the friction and the timing of it all. Sai uses his teeth as much as his lips, and Yamato tries not to fall apart every time his chest and nipples are doted upon.

Sai is quiet, most of their time together. His breath quickens often, coalesces into little gasps, but there’s no real sound to any of it. The silence is disappointing, in a way, but it’s also satisfying to draw those gasps out, and Yamato does his best to earn each and every one.

At one point, he tries to flip Sai onto his back, but the painter twists like one of his ink snakes, sinuous and beautiful, and somehow Yamato ends up pinned with his hands held over his head. Sai only smiles down at him, like it’s a damn good joke. Yamato doesn’t bother trying to decide if it’s real or not. Sweet, demanding touches are more than enough.

There’s a moment of vulnerability when Sai pushes inside, a lingering instant of closed eyes and curled toes, taut muscles and hot skin. Primal undertow drives the fierceness of their gripped hands. Yamato tries to commit that sensation to memory before it’s gone— the over-stimulation, the measure of surrender. Then, feeling the daring, unsteady need to indulge in that purposeful weakness, he tilts his head back and exposes his throat. He’s rewarded almost immediately by Sai’s lips against his pulse point, and the barest flutter of (laughter) breath against his skin before Sai begins to move in earnest.

Afterward, within the chemical remnants of leisure and looseness, Yamato asks once more, “Why me?”

Sai turns his head on their shared pillow, facing him, eyes soft but expression mostly blank. “I chose you because you were once a member of Root,” he answers truthfully, quietly. “You were most likely to understand and competently enact a need for fulfillment without compromising emotional attachment.”

“So… that’s it?” Yamato asks, careful to sound entirely at ease. His skin is beginning to cool down, but he doesn’t reach for a blanket. “Just an easy fuck?”

“Of course,” Sai answers, as if that’s all there ever could be.

 

\--

 

 _We can rebuild_ , he tells himself once more, and moments later, again. _I can create happiness, too. I can do more than this. I_ am _more than this._

Decimation. Devastation. Barely skirted death.

Yamato stands amongst the wreckage of what once was Konoha, seeing the terrible swatches of Pein’s signature everywhere he looks. His mokuton, carefully rooting its way through rubble, resonates with the unmistakable stain of old blood and spiritual decay. Life was returned thanks to Naruto’s persuasive efforts; safety received no such guarantee. Now, they are left to dig. And hope.

"Over here! Quickly!"

The following silence is heavy with suspense, then debris is lifted by thin pillars of wood. Sunlight exposes another body, broken but alive.

 

\--

 

If anyone were to ask, Yamato is sure that he would say he has had a good life.

He was born to the forest, a child of wind and canopies, even if these memories are now half-imagined. And the world has since been generous to offer so much more— tempestuous oceans, refractive fields of crystal, shifting red dunes, indifferent blizzards, emotions and the souls that birthed them like so many unfurled maps.

Yamato feels shaped by the people around him. It's humbling and exciting at the same time. As he watches the world slowly organize itself to stand against common enemies, he thinks they might actually have a chance to survive this.

He is sent to Kumo.

 

\--

 

The shadows splayed across the top of the cavern are thick and far-reaching, but phosphorescence spills green into every eager cranny. There's a snake looming overhead, and that's... somehow familiar, Yamato realizes blearily. The comparison isn't something he can hold onto, though; it's difficult to concentrate on anything. His palm burns with suppressive venom, threatening to drag him down into the depths of unconsciousness. He blinks past the bleariness, grits his teeth until his jaw hurts, and tries to focus on the conversation happening above him.

It's Kabuto, the snake-not-snake. His body has been warped into pale reptilian lines and...

Focus wobbles, slips away, finally returns after several difficult breaths.

"—worry," Kabuto assures Obito with a confident sneer, "I won't use it on the zetsu."

There's more, of course. Scattered words like cells and truth serum and patience that swell and swell and swell into Yamato's mind until they finally slot together into some horrible measure of understanding. He tries to move, but his body won't cooperate. Dread devolves into panic, competes with the neurotoxin to steal his breath away. His helplessness sounds like short gasps.

He's going to be forced to betray his comrades, and there's nothing he can do about it.

 _I am a Konoha shinobi_ , Yamato tells himself, desperate for resolve, for courage. He knows he won't be rescued from this. _I will do everything I can to buy my village more time._

He's dragged by his hair to a statue of Hashirama. One of the white zetsus grins at him, its mouth a gaping black hole framed by crooked teeth, before distorting itself around Yamato's legs. It begins to meld them both into the statue. Yamato's entire body burns.

"Gentle," Kabuto teases as Yamato feebly writhes and tries to scream, and Obito scoffs somewhere in the background.

 _I am ready to sacrifice for my home_ , Yamato thinks frantically, desperately.

He wonders if he'll soon stop being able to breathe at all. He wonders if the agony in his legs means he's being crushed by the weight of Hashirama's disappointment.

_I have faith in the world._

His pain deepens, courses through his veins like something alive, and tentatively flirts with oblivion. Black spots dance in his peripheral.

_I am a Konoha shinobi. I am capable of enduring. I am not a coward._

_I am—_

_I am—_

 

\--

 

There are no dreams, at first. Just darkness to drift through, suspension, a spilled collection of chakra pathways for the statue to feed on.

The God Tree is another kind of parasite, but the illusions it provides are at least a mercy.

Happiness is well imagined.

 

\--

 

Yamato opens his eyes to sunlight.

He rolls over with a groan, scattering rocks as he struggles to his knees. All around him, white strips of bark flutter with the breeze like dried, discarded skin. His vision blurs, and squinting only exacerbates a headache. He thinks he can make out other shinobi beginning to stand in the distance.

"Mother," a strangled voice whispers, and Yamato startles so abruptly that he nearly falls on his ass. It's one of the white zetsu, and it lifts an unsteady, disjointed hand before crumbling. Its death is disarmingly casual.

Yamato has to fight a wave of nausea when he looks away, taking slow breathes through his nose as he stares at a rock on the ground. The tips of his fingers feel strangely numb. He wonders if that's from exhaustion, the venom, or one of the chakra drains his body has suffered through. Probably all three, he thinks wryly.

After several seconds, Yamato attempts to stand. His legs shake, and he's forced to use a pile of debris to push himself up. He's left lightheaded and swaying, and all at once he knows he's not going to be able to take a step without falling. He tries to move anyway, and feels only bitterness when he immediately stumbles.

"Yamato!" someone yells, and that's— Kakashi, he realizes with surprise, as his old friend suddenly vaults over a boulder and moves to his side. He quickly supports some of Yamato's weight with one arm across his back. "It's okay," Kakashi tells him quietly, as if the day has a right to any sort of gentleness. "I've got you."

Yamato stares, unable to bring himself to look away. Can't think of what to say, either. He opens his mouth, trying for words that aren't ready, and it leaves his chest feeling tight all over again. He wonders why Kakashi looks so barely held-together, where Kakashi has been, what any of them have _done_. He almost asks if the war over, but that seems to be obvious at this point. Still, he's not sure what to tell Kakashi, and shaky breaths don't do much to help. "I tried," he finally croaks, needing Kakashi to understand. Needing somebody to know— "I tried to fight them. I tried."

The bruising scattered across Kakashi's cheekbones is stark, and his eyes are heavy and somber, but he sounds only kind when he says, "I know."

Yamato stares until he believes Kakashi. The sunlight on the right side of his face feels too warm. He wants to forget about everything. He wants to remember this forever. He doesn't know what he wants.

"I'm going to need you by my side, in the days to come," Kakashi tells him, dispelling the silence, and Yamato belatedly notices that they're slowly moving toward a group of shinobi. The green glow of medics' hands disrupts the pattern of skin tones and blood.

Yamato nods, then has to swallow past another surge of nausea. "You'll always have me," he murmurs, and he's too tired to wonder if Kakashi really understands the depth of that. He almost asks about the members of team seven, but he doesn't think he can deal with any other pain at the moment. Safer not to know at all, for now.

"Thank you," Kakashi whispers, gripping Yamato's forearm as he continues to look ahead.

"Are you— How are you?" he remembers to ask, even if it's late.

"I'll be okay."

"Oh. Good." A blink, and suddenly they're ten feet closer to the group. "I think I might pass out," he admits quietly.

Kakashi nods and doesn't waver. "That's okay. I'll look out for you."

"I'm safe," Yamato says, barely more than breathing the words as his vision darkens.

"You're safe."

 

\--

 

The world finds time for some peace, after its inhabitants awaken. Yamato settles into his name. 

Sometimes, when a warm bed slackens his limbs and a familiar hand curls around his, he thinks he's content with the way things turned out.


End file.
